Requiem
by fourheads
Summary: Taking a small break from Desperado. I'd really appreciate feedback, critiques, comments, etc. This is a very, VERY depressing OneShot, but I'm pretty satisfied with it. You've been warned! [Character Death]


A metaphorical violin played dismally in the background. A myriad of discarded, nearly empty glass bottles of whiskey sang out lonely, screeching tunes from the hollow space within them as they rolled precariously along the hardwood terrazzo, leaving numerous, insignificant rivers of the foul-smelling liquor to bleed into the cracks of the flooring. Some of the stray liquid was even creeping into the white carpet underneath the bench of his piano which House found undeniably annoying.

He had been composing music all day, plunking out useless, irritated tunes that never failed to end in a sour note, adding to the pathetic scene that he had created within both his mind and the space that lay just beyond where his tired arms could reach. That seemed to be happening far more often than not, lately.

Time would go by chronologically, automatically; House blinked and swore that they passed by with no more emphasis than the cracking sound of a gunshot in a deserted forest. It was strange an unnerving; time, before he let go, before _everything_ had spiraled downward and jabbed him when he wasn't looking, would go by when he felt like it should. He ironically praised liquor for this ability.

_Ahhh, the power of alcohol_, he mused and lazily lifted the bottle to his lips for a congratulatory sip.

But even losing himself to the bittersweet bliss of a drunken, shallow existence seemed to wear off. Even though House's slowly dying body hadn't, his sense of reality had become almost _immune_ to the damned poison.

He couldn't tell whether it had actually happened out of the merciless wrath of God whom he still refused to believe in or out of some regrettable mistake that had been the result of a wave of carelessness weaved into his thought process.

_No_, no. It had to be because of nonexistent God.

Slowly sinking downward into the sum of what he called "the hell house for House" during the months that followed slowly by, he molded himself into even more of a miserable, hopeless wreck, lost in his thoughts with nothing to shine his dimmed light on.

There was always the hospital, of _course_ there was always the hospital. He could go back; Wilson and Cuddy were always pointlessly calling, offering his job back, making promises he assumed they would never keep once his sorry face would darken their door for what he always hoped would be the last time.

But everything be damned if the cruel, ironic truth wasn't that he could cure everyone's pain but his own.

His pain was a living thing, something _he _had created out of his own willing stupidity; it was his Frankenstein monster that he raised from birth to death into something ugly and real.

House _was _his pain. Or at least he somehow lived on the comfort of believing so.

Bringing his face, damp with sweat and whiskey, off the cold base of the piano, he tugged at the last of his strength and found music in whatever was left over.

He was playing his own requiem.

_I close my eyes,_

Slowly, mournfully the words came accompanied by music, hand in hand, almost instinctively. His body moved against the piano emotionally with every note he played, sinking slower into breathlessness.

_Wait for it to pass._

Merciless pain began to tug at his thigh, creeping toward his abdomen forebodingly. He played.

_Said our goodbyes,_

His stomach churned with the uneasiness of bile rising within it, his vision began to dim further. Beads of sweat decorated his face as they fell to the ivory keys wordlessly, silent raindrops against the music. He clenched his teeth with difficulty as his numb fingers continued to press the keys. He played.

_Like we knew they were our last._

It was _unbearable_, but he continued. Was this what he had been begging for? House felt salvation, he could taste it; delicious and worthwhile, sparking a flicker of eagerness within him.

_Too late pray,_

_And wait for this tomorrow._

_What happened to yesterday?_

_The one they think they all know._

And then his vision darkened; he blinked harshly as sweat continued to sting his eyelids, waiting for unconsciousness to come and take him. It was finally taking him away after the days and nights of writhing in pain and lost hope. _Away_ from his desperation, abuse, the downfall of his life. He blamed himself. If there was anyone else to blame, he'd driven them away.

House was able to smile bitterly, though barely.

_We've reached the end,_

_Can't say we really tried._

His head lowered hesitantly toward the cool surface of the piano's base as the final notes and words came softer and with purpose as his body grew limp against the keys.

_No more pretending,_

_We're just living on a lie._

His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as a deep, ghastly breath escaped his lips. _Salvation_.

_Everybody lies._

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**A/N:** Uhm. _Wow. _I know that I usually write... morbidly/depressingly? But _never_ like this. I just thought I needed to get some Dying!Angst!House out of the way so I wouldn't want to put it in my fanfic & RUIN IT COMPLETELY.

Anyways, don't worry; this is _definitely_ not part of **_Desperado_**, just a little OneShot, nothing more. (:

And I _beg _of you all; don't review if you're just going to call it OOC, unrealistic, too depressing, etc. I _warned_ you guys in the summary. Thanks! – **Trace.**

**P.S: **(The song was written by _me_, so don't worry about me forgetting to cite it and whatnot.)


End file.
